The Hand - An Ever-Growing Anthology
by Tychonyx
Summary: I've been writing for so many years and possibly the hardest part of writing for me is sticking with one story for very long. So that has inspired me to write "The Hand" as a home for my homeless short stories and incomplete novels. It has allowed me to be spontaneously creative and then draw to a tentative close before moving on. Hope everyone enjoys it!
1. The Inn

**_THE INN_**

* * *

A man bought a plot of land in the middle of the developing town of Windbrook. Using his remaining funds, the man built a three-story inn on the property. On the first floor there was the front desk, the kitchen and dining room which his wife whole-heartedly attended, and the room where the owner and his family would live; above the first floor were two floors with rooms for guests to rent. As time passed, the town grew into a small city and the inn was almost always full. Travelers from far-off lands frequented the inn and enjoyed the warm hospitality and unquestioning acceptance of each traveler that the owner and his wife provided.

One traveler in particular came to the inn on many occasions, a traveling merchant going only by the name, Thom. He was a young merchant, no older than twenty-five years old, a fresh young face with a pleasant demeanor, well-built from the manual labor his occupation required, with ear-length, soft brown hair. He was a polite guest, paying his dues in a timely manner, keeping quiet and generally to himself, and following the rules of the inn.

Thom was making his rounds in Windbrook, going around to local shops looking for buyers for his wares when he saw a box on the side of the road. A recent rainfall had left the box soaked-through and falling apart. Upon further inspection of the box, Thom discovered a young, small, brown dog inside. Being a kind-hearted man, he took the dog from the box and brought him back to the inn. The owner had a rule against keeping dogs at the inn, but because of Thom's frequent loyalty to the inn; he decided to make an exception in his case.

The owner had a son, only one; his only child. The boy was a very nervous child, always shying away from people. Whenever he was nervous, he would tap his right foot uncontrollably, earning him the nickname, "Thumper". Thumper took a fascination towards Thom, or more accurately, the dog he kept with him, but never did he say a word; he only stared at Thom and his dog from a distance.

One day, while feeding the dog at the table in the farthest back corner of the inn dining room, Thom noticed Thumper, staring at the dog and tapping his foot. Curious as to why the boy was looking at the dog with such concentration, he called the boy over to him.

"Are you interested in my dog?" Thom asked him nicely. The boy nodded in reply.

"You can pet him if you wish." He added. The boy nodded again and began to gently caress the dog's fur.

"Does he have a name?" Thumper asked. Thom was a little surprised by this.

"I haven't gotten around to naming him, now that you mention it."

"Things should have names." the boy said, "Things without names are without souls."

A few nights passed and all was quiet in the Windbrook Inn. The silence was pierced by an ear-shattering screech. The guests ran out of their rooms, still dressed in their night clothing, and the owner ran upstairs to see what was causing the commotion. There in the hallway was Thumper, covered with red, slapping coats of blood onto the walls; and beside him was Thom's dog, with a knife in his chest.

The owner made the decision to close the Inn for several weeks to clean it from the bloody mess Thumper had made. When the Inn re-opened, Thumper was gone. The owner was asked many times about it by his guests, and he only answered, "My son was ill, so I sent him someplace where he won't hurt himself or anyone else." and no one questioned him further.

Many years later, the owner and his wife passed away with no one to succeed the inn. The ownership of the Inn passed through several hands over four decades. A lone business man came into Windbrook to make a business deal with a merchant from the town and stayed in the local Inn. Upon checking in, he received instructions to go to the last room on the second floor. That night, he was fast asleep when he heard a strange sound coming through the wall. When he came out of his room to find someone to complain to, he only saw a wall on that side. He tried to disregard the noise and go back to sleep. Again, the man was shaken from his sleep by the noise coming from the wall. This time, he went to the balcony, and there he discovered that the wall to that side continued on.

The man, who was very confused, complained to the owner who assured him that there was no room on that side of the hall. Many guests stayed in the last room of the second floor, and all of them complained of strange 'bumping' sounds coming through the wall. The guests inquired about the sound for years, but the owner only denied it every time. "There's no one and nothing behind that wall." The guests counted the rooms on the third floor, four in all, and on the second there were only three. They complained again, but the owner only denied again. One guest came and experienced the strange sound in the night and complained to the owner, demanding that he knock down the wall. This time, the owner agreed and asked the local contractor to come and break down the wall in question.

On the day the wall was broken, the whole town seemingly gathered to watch the mystery come to a close. The contractor broke through the wall, the dust cleared, and it revealed that the hallway continued to a fourth room. The guests then demanded that he knock down the door and with the help of many people, the owner managed to kick down the door.

The door creaked open, light poured into the empty room, revealing a little brown dog who barked at the intruders before running out of the room past them. On the walls written in red were the words:

**_"Please, Father, Let me out!_**

**_Please, Father, Let me out!_**

**_Please, Father, Let me out!"_**

-The End-


	2. Father

**Father**

* * *

My father was a good man. He loved my mother and adored my sister and me. I like to think that it was because he loved us that he worked such a dangerous job. For ten years he was a welder for a construction company, receiving hazard pay in order to save up so that my little sister and I could go to college. That was always his dream for us. He never got the chance to go to college, neither did mom, but he always told us to do our schoolwork and study hard so we could do what he never could. And so my father's dream became my goal. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my books strewn all over the place, Abby scribbling in crayon on a coloring book beside me, and Mom cooking dinner when Dad came home. Abby always ran to greet him, jumping up into his big, strong arms and getting showered in his affections. I resisted the urge to join her with all of my willpower and stayed focused on the homework in front of me. I'm not entirely sure why I acted that way, but I guess I wanted to prove to him that I could work hard.

He would always come up from behind me, kneel down to my level, Abby still clinging to him, place his huge warm hand on my back and smile at me with his unique, one-of-a-kind, and wonderful smile. Every day he greeted me the same way. In his deep, comforting voice he would always ask, "What'ya know kiddo?" When I was younger and not as clever, I used to answer his question by first thinking about it and telling him something that I had learned that day from school or books or T.V. But as I got older, I started to answer, "A lot." Whenever I did, he would laugh his full-bodied yet youthful laugh like a boy on the playground and ruffle my hair, "You sure do." He'd smile then give me a kiss on my head.

Abby and I would always giggle at the way he greeted mom. Mom would be at the stove, preparing dinner and Dad would hug her from behind, showering her with kisses. We used to think _that_ was really, really gross, I mean, we were kids after all so I'm pretty sure we still thought all boys had cooties. Mom would always laugh at him, complaining that he was "In her way" and that "He should be patient like a big boy." Dad did act like a little boy, with youthful energy and humor no matter how long of a day he had. I really respect that about him.

At night, just before bed, Dad would come into our room and read to us. As I grew older, I didn't want to be treated like a kid anymore and sometimes refused his offer to read to us, but Abby, being younger than me, still wanted it every night. Of course, every night, Dad would give into Abby's relentless begging and even if I refused, he would flip open the pages of a book and read it to us in the dim light of our bedroom. I never would have admitted it at the time, but I never grew tired of him reading to us. He had the kind of voice that made you feel safe, calm. It was the voice that always said "I'm home" whenever he opened the front door, the voice that told us "everything's okay," "There's nothing to be afraid of." I loved that voice, and loved it even more when he used it to tell stories. With his voice, the stories came to life in my head, dancing around in vivid colors like dreams, and those images lured me deeper and deeper into sleep.

I'm not sure what I miss most. His youthful antics, his laugh, his smile, his touch, his voice, the words he spoke, the stories he told. No, I miss it all. Every bit of him I remember with painful yet wonderful nostalgia. I would give almost anything to forget what happened the day he died. I would give anything to forget the way the phone rang that afternoon, to forget how Mom dropped the bowl in her hands and the sound of it shattering all over the floor. To forget the way tears welled up in her eyes and how her voice croaked with every word. And mostly, I would forget the way she broke down. She came to her knees, phone still in her hands held up to her ear. She was too overcome with pain to speak, she only sobbed. Abby was so young, so confused, she wanted to comfort her. She walked over to mom, held her hand and imitated what Dad did whenever she cried, telling her that "everything's alright," and things of that nature. Mom looked up at her with tear-filled eyes and grabbed her tight, squeezing her to the point where she complained that it hurt. For days afterwards, while Mom was grieving, Abby asked "When Daddy was going to be home," which just made her cry harder. I tried my best to keep Abby occupied and to let Mom heal, but I wasn't in the best state of mind myself.

I managed to maintain my composure until the funeral. Surrounded by our friends and family, all dressed in black. I remember everyone looking so tall, like skyscrapers, and then the quick thought passed through my mind, _"maybe I could see if I get up on Dad's shoulders."_ But the thought soon faded as I realized that what I couldn't see was him. I didn't really want to look. Mom told us that Dad looked very good, "It just seems like he's sleeping" as she put it. But when I finally got the courage to look inside, I was surprised by what I saw. The man inside the casket was not my Dad. It looked like him, all of his facial features were the same, his hair was the same color, he looked just like he always did; but it was his eyes. Those eyes that were so filled with spirit, life, and love were not only closed, but the soul that once filled those eyes was gone. It was just an empty vessel, a box without its contents. Mom tried to urge me to give him one last kiss goodbye, but I refused. It was impossible to do that since it wasn't Dad. "This is not my Dad!" I told her,

"Of course it is." she said, "Now go on, say goodbye."

"I said goodbye to my _Dad_ when he left for work!"

I pushed my way through the crowd of mourners, escaping from the imminent sadness of my mother. I knew that what I said would make her cry, which is the last thing I wanted, but I still said it. I was embarrassed by the way I treated my mother and I think it was more out of humiliation than anger that I left the funeral. I ran through the long rows of gravestones, the seemingly endless string of names and dates that gave me an eerie feeling of being watched by their spirits. When I came to the top of the hill, there was a large oak tree that grew strong in the land of death. That was where I collapsed, and that was when I cried for my father's death for the first time.

I don't think I said a word for months. After the funeral procession, the groundskeeper found me by the tree and escorted me back to the group where I was welcomed with embraces and sympathies from the mourners; empty kindness. Mom ushered Abby and me into the car and we drove home in silence. Even Abby, who was always very talkative, didn't say a word, as if the silence were a priceless glass vase, and a single word could shatter it. When we arrived home, Mom went straight to bed and Abby fell asleep on the couch. I went to the kitchen table and worked. I had homework to do. Things slowly returned to normal, Abby started and I went back to school, Mom worked her regular job at the diner in town, and for years it stayed that way. It was when I was 12, 5 years after Dad's death that Mom got married again.

If I could come up with the worst man on this earth; make him mean, ugly, unintelligent, and untalented, he would still be a better man than Rick. Rick was a big man. Not necessarily overweight, but tall, muscular, and strong. He had the coldest eyes I've ever seen; looking into them sent shivers down my spine and reminded me of sharing a moment of eye-contact with a dead fish, not to mention he was strangely proud of his revolting beard, the scraggly, wiry mess that covered his disgusting face. He always smelt horrible, like cigarettes, beer, and grease, so much so that you could still smell it on the furniture he sat on. He wasn't even a very kind man. He was always so oblivious of Abby and me, only remembering that we lived in the house too when he was too lazy to stand up and retrieve something. The moment he came home, he left a trail leading from the door to the kitchen and then into the living room of his shoes, jacket, extra layers, bags, trash, and anything else he happened to have on him. We could always find him on the couch, flipping through channels lethargically with a dazed expression on his stupid-looking face and a beer in his hand. If I could summarize him in one word, he would be a cow. Lazy, unsanitary, unfriendly, always-consuming, slow; that was the kind of man Rick was. Also similar to a cow was his explosive and surprising temper. He would be placated and calm one moment and then swinging his fists around the next. His bouts of anger, fueled by the alcohol put holes in our walls and bruises on our arms. He even hit Abby more than a few times. I think it was because of the bruises that I started dressing the way I did. I wore all black and long sleeves to cover the wounds and keep people from seeing them. That and the long, alternating periods of depression and anger that I often got had me branded as a out with the other emo's had me acting like one. I always felt the need to rebel, to go against the flow and disregard authority; but that just got Rick even more upset.

The way he abused me and Abby was nothing like the way he treated Mom. She would cover up the scratches and bruises saying that it "was really her fault," or "He didn't mean it," or "It was an accident." But I knew better than to believe that. She was scared of him, scared of what he could do and the control he had over her life. He was the one who paid our bills because she couldn't pay them alone with her terrible job. It's not like she could get a different job that paid better because that was the only job she ever did for over 18 years. She couldn't just give it up but she couldn't support us anymore. Being married to Rick meant that the family's finances were taken care of but I could have cared less. He treated her like dirt. Disrespected her, hurt her, yelled at her, grabbed her, controlled her, scared her. I hated him with every fiber of my being.

The only thing that I somewhat liked about him was his job. Rick had a job as a truck driver and because of that, he could be out of the house for days. Those were the only days I felt like I could breathe. It gave us a chance to air out the smell and cover our wounds, the chance to live life out from under his thumb for a short while. But then all too soon, the reprieve would end and he would come back. He always came back.

My Dad, the wonderful man who read me and my sister to sleep, loved my sister and me, and loved my mother, was never coming back. I knew that. I always did know that. And I should have been a bit more grateful to Rick for marrying my mom. I mean, of all of the women in the world to marry, he probably would have not chosen a widow in her 40's with two daughters. But I still wanted things to be different. I wanted my life to change. I wanted to go back to the way things were before, when Dad would come home, pat me on the head and ask me, "What'ya know, kiddo?" in his usual way. I wanted to not be afraid to come home. I wanted to be free of bruises, free of scars, free of the weight that constantly weighed down on my shoulders. But we can't always have what we want, can we?

-To Be Continued-


	3. The Puppet Master

**The Puppet Master**

* * *

Fate is a cruel thing. It's God's way of saying that you're helpless. Some choose not to believe in fate; instead they choose to follow the illusion that they have free will, but that isn't true. If fate truly does exist, then your belief of free will's existence is only a part of your fate, a predetermined aspect of your life. It's mind-boggling isn't it? The thought of fate; it can be frightening. Most people dislike the thought that their lives are out of their hands, but it's not like they have much of a choice. Life will go on and your fate will unfold before your eyes.

Your fate is like a book, a coherent story from beginning to end starting with your birth. Who your parents were where and how you grew up; the things you did, the people you meet, and they all tie in to what your fate has in store for you. There is an old legend that is still believed today in Asian nations about the 'red string of fate'. It is said that whenever you meet someone, a small, invisible red string binds you to them. For some, the legend is interpreted that you will be tied to the one you love by the red string on their pinky fingers, and whenever you make a pinky promise with them and keep it, it strengthens the bond between the two of you. Others interpret it as what you must do during your life. But whatever your interpretation, it still means the same thing.

Now what if fate is irrefutably and undeniably true? What if there is a man controlling you by strings like a puppet and determining your fate? Does that make you believe in fate more, or does it make you yearn for free will? For the purposes of this story, I implore you to believe that it is true. I was given a unique position by my Lord. I was named the Puppet Master.

I live amongst the people of this world. My lord said that it would help me understand the lives of the people I am writing. He has many of us Puppet Masters, the people pulling the strings on your life. We were all once living human beings, people controlled by the strings; after our deaths, we were selected to become the assistants to the Lord and write the lives of his people. Every day, I receive a name of a newborn child from my Lord and write his name in a new book. I come up with their fate; the people they will meet, the people they will interact with, the actions they take, and the thoughts and epiphanies they have is all determined by me. Then their lives are in my hands, open for revision until they die and reach the gates of heaven.

I tell you from experience that heaven is even more amazing than you can imagine. Your life is no longer determined by your books of fate; free will belongs to you at last. You may think that God is cruel for forcing you to act from the fate written in the books, but he is anything but. He made the earth a wonderful place, full of beautiful things and beautiful people. But he understands that in exchange for how amazing the earth is, the world is a very dangerous place. He makes you follow the fate written in your book in order to ensure that you enjoy your life on earth the best you can, learn as much as you can, and love as much as you can before properly joining God in his kingdom at the proper time. He is not to be disliked because he hires people like me to write your life.

I was blessed with eternal life here on earth. I do not age a day past 25. I am allowed to live amongst the people and enjoy their life, even experience free will on earth. It is quite the appealing job if you ask me. Now of course, it isn't forever. God chooses when you have served him enough as a Puppet Master and allows you to retire, and then the lives you are in charge of falls to another Puppet Master. But we don't know when that day will come, and so we simply live and wait.

My story begins one morning when I woke up in my usual apartment. I kept it simple and clean, with a basic bed and dresser in the bedroom, a desk and shelves along with a couch, coffee table, and an easy chair in the living room, small, round, pinewood table and three matching chairs in the kitchen and the two closets, one in my bedroom and one in the living room, neat and organized. I blinked into the early dawn sunrise, rose from my bed and put on a pot of coffee. After taking a shower and getting dressed, I went out to my front door and checked the mail slot. The contents were the same as any Sunday morning; a Sunday issue of the New York Times, a few bills, random catalogues, and the sealed, yellow envelope with my name written in calligraphic letters on the front. I went through the pile of mail and went back into the apartment, putting the bills in the little sorting box on my desk, the catalogues on the kitchen table, and the New York Times onto the coffee table.

After pouring myself a cup of coffee and pouring in my usual mix of cream and two sugars, I sat at my desk and opened up the envelope, emptying it of its contents. Inside were 4 birth certificates for three newborn boys and one little girl. I read through it carefully, looking at the parent's names, the baby's size, their features like hair, eye, and skin color, and their parent's marital status, amongst other things. "Looks like an easy day." I said to myself. I stood from the desk and went to the living room closet, sliding open the doors and reaching inside for the box I kept inside. The plastic tub was filled with marble cover composition notebooks. Every time I ran low, I would go on quite the shopping spree, buying out an office supply store of their composition notebooks. It was not the best way to keep me from being noticed per se, but I do hate running out of things. Taking four new notebooks from the tub, I sat back down at my desk and retrieved my pen from the drawer.

The pen kept in my desk is irreplaceable, a gift from God himself. Without this pen, writing out the lives of the people simply becomes words in a notebook, nothing particularly special about them. But with the pen, the words become law; they become fate. I am quite embarrassed to say that before becoming a Puppet Master, I have never written with a fountain pen, but I was forced to learn when God gave me the ornate, gold fountain pen. The pen was solid gold with a silver tip that I kept in the black, leather covered case in the indent of the red-velvet interior. I never believed in magic; not once in my entire life, not even in the afterlife, but for some reason, the pen never runs out of ink. It is constantly filled. I kept the pen locked in the first drawer of my desk, to keep anyone from retrieving my pen.

The morning began with writing the lives of the newborn children in the notebooks, every thought they will ever have, every action they ever do. I guess you are probably wondering how long it takes for me to write one of these lives down in the notebooks. I'd say on a good day, it only takes me a few minutes per book. I'm not exactly sure why but time seems to move slowly when I write with the pen, but your minds may not be able to quite understand this just yet. I was done with the notebooks within an hour and by then the sun had fully risen over the city and I could hear the sounds of vehicles rolling through the streets on their way to their various destinations.

The second part of my job is to watch out for the people whose fates are in my hands. I'm allowed to edit their lives with the pen and change their course, but for the most part, I avoid using that power. But I still watch over the people in my care, to make sure everything goes smoothly. You may wonder how I keep track of the people I'm in charge of. The answer is relatively simple actually. You see, the legend of the red string of fate is not entirely false. In fact, for the most part, it's true. The red string of fate is bound around the pinky fingers of every person, but the end of your string leads to your puppet master. I can follow the string of whoever I wish and find out where they are, and what they're doing. For the most part, my events are not terribly specific, it only covers major events and aspects of your life, but other than that, you are on your own. So that is why I choose to keep track of them, to make sure they are still going down the right path. After my coffee and writing the new books, I placed them up in the bookshelf with the other notebooks and placed them in order of date of death. I then picked up my jacket from the coat rack by the door, walked out of the apartment, and out to the streets.

The first stop on my outing was the coffee shop on the end of the street. Of course, I already had my morning fix, but one of the men in my care happens to be the owner. Joe DiMartino was a good man, a positive guy with a constantly-smiling face. He started up his own coffee shop about 20 years before and named it "Joe's Joe." Not very original if you ask me. But the patrons of his coffee shop were loyal customers. Everyone enjoyed his coffee and the food that he made, and so his business thrived. I was quite proud of him for that. I'm proud of all of the people whose lives I've written. I may have written their lives, but they've endured it with their own strength, intellect, and talents. On occasion, I'll go to Joe's coffee shop and sit down with a cup of coffee and a pastry. Every time I do, Joe's there, bright and early in the morning, smiling with his stupidly childish, warm smile and welcomes me in with an unmatched enthusiasm. He will never know that I am the one who has been watching over him and writing his life since he was born until the day that he dies and moves on from this world, but I still continue to watch him live in silence.

This morning wasn't any different from the others that I've spent in his shop. I open the glass door and a little brass bell rings. Joe pokes his head out from behind the counter and greets me, then walks over to the register and takes my order. I sat in the back of the shop in one of the easy chairs in front of the fire place with one of Joe's famous cinnamon rolls while I watched Joe take on the morning rush. Customers flooded the shop within a matter of minutes; any other man would have been overwhelmed but not Joe, he just kept smiling the whole time. I knew that opening the coffee shop would be the best thing for him. That was why I wrote it in his book. He was always good with people ever since he first learned how to talk and won people over from the first smile.

The hardest part about being a Puppet Master is keeping away that sense of attachment. Our fingers are tied by the red string of fate and yet we are encouraged to keep a sense of distance from the people whose lives we've written. As people whose lives on earth are not limited by growing age, we see people born, we see them grow up, become successful, and then we see them die. It isn't a rule that we separate ourselves from those who are tied to us, but it is more of an unspoken guideline; something we just know instinctively. To tell you the truth, it is truly difficult to keep this distance from those who I've come to know since their births. It is almost like watching your children grow up without having spoken a single word to them. In a way it is almost like parenting what I do. We set up a path for them, give them all of the tools they need to succeed and then set them off on their journeys, praying that all goes well. It is a feeling of helplessness that is similar to a parent watching their son or daughter drive off in the family car alone for the first time, or letting go of the handlebars of the bike. But in the same way, the feeling is one of pride. Someone who I have helped develop into the person they are going off and doing great things. It is a feeling like no other.

Once I was done loitering in Joe's shop, I set off to the second stop on my excursion. The local hospital was just a few blocks away from Joe's coffee shop and just inside was one of the children whose lives I had just written. I walked into the hospital through the sliding glass doors and walked through the crowded waiting room. I noticed that a few people I've written lives for were sitting in the waiting room. Slightly concerned, I looked around trying to spot them. Isaac, one of my favorite teenage boys had just broken his arm on his skateboard; just as I had written. This is the event that leads him to become a doctor later in life, once he notices someone come into the door on a stretcher, barely hanging onto life. And as if on cue, that person on the stretcher, Jane Caverty, another one of my string-holders, rolled into the waiting room. Of course, this was an event that I had written in for her. She had gotten into a car accident this morning because she caught her husband cheating on her and she was so distracted that she didn't pay attention to the road. Writing tragedies is probably the hardest part of my job; I don't want to give suffering to the people I think of as my children, but I know that it is those events that help them grow stronger and grow character.

I passed the waiting room and entered the elevator, going to the maternity floor. The elevator made a small ding as I came to the floor and the doors opened, showing me a calm and peaceful environment, completely different from the hectic waiting room downstairs. Down the hall was the nursery room, where the excited relatives of the newborns go to see the newborn baby through the glass. I stopped in front of the glass, trying to locate the little girl who I had written about this morning. It was then that a man came and stood next to me. I instantly recognized him as the father of the girl I was looking for. He was tall with short brown hair, not a bad-looking guy, but his strong hands were still trembling with anxiety.

"Which one is yours?" I asked him, politely,

He stuttered for a minute before pointing to her, "That's her right over there."

He pointed to the little girl in the back right corner. She was sound asleep and dreaming peacefully.

"She's beautiful." I told him, "Nicely done."

The man chuckled, "What about you?"

I was surprised by his question. "Uh, no, I'm-…" I thought about an excuse for a second, "I'm a little too young to be thinking about that." Of course, I lied. I may look about 25 years old, but only God knows how old I am now.

"You nervous?" I asked him,

"A little." He smiled, "But it's a good kind of nervous. I want to give her the world, you know?"

I couldn't help but smile back, "Yeah, I get it."

It was not about time to take my leave. I had seen and heard all I needed for today. "You take good care of her, you hear?"

He nodded and turned back to his daughter who was now looking at him and smiling. With one last look, I stepped back into the elevator and back out to the streets.

I returned to my apartment building, walking up the steps to the front door and pulling out the key from my pocket. That was when I noticed another envelope sticking out of my mailbox. At first, I thought that it was just a piece of mail that I had forgotten. I retrieved it from the box and looked at the front of it. It had the same calligraphic letters on the front, but it also had an urgent stamp on the front. I was confused by the sudden envelope so I brought it back inside and set it on my desk. Upon opening it, I pulled out a letter.

It read:

_ Dear Thomas,_

_Peter has been relived from his position and I need you to take on some of the people that were in his care. He made sure to back up his notebooks and send them on to you before leaving but it may take a few days for them to finally reach you. Enclosed in this envelope is a short list of the people he was in charge of. If you could perhaps go around and get to know them a bit before you receive the notebooks that would be good. Once again, thank you for your continuous hard work._

_Signed,_

_God_

-To Be Continued-


	4. The Hand

**_The Hand_**

* * *

A mother and her two sons sat in their car, speeding down an empty highway. That morning, they had woken bright and early to drive the two boys to their father's house, two states away. This was the boy's first time staying with their father since their parent's divorce and their mother was still very hesitant to leave her beloved sons with him. However, she knew how much the father loved his sons as well so she agreed to bring them to visit him. The mother tried to make the most of the trip with her sons so she played road games with them, talked with them, and laughed with them the whole way.

As the car continued along the highway, the metropolitan and populated landscape turned into a dense, evergreen forest. The road games and conversation ended because there was no longer anything to look at; no license plates to call out, no cars to justify hitting anyone, no visual stimulation to spark conversation. The mother worked hard to traverse the winding roads and was completely silent and focused, the youngest son fell asleep in the back seat against the window, and the oldest son was fixated on the window with a blank stare. Occasionally, they would pass a house, but other than that there was only deep forest on both sides of the vehicle. As the hours grew late, the sky turned to a blanket of pitch darkness, with thick, black clouds shielded the earth from the cutting light from the moon and stars; and then it began to rain. Water pounded heavily on the windshield of the car and the sound of the windshield wipers moving back and forth complimented the sound of the rain.

As the car sped along the dark and wet road, they suddenly felt a jerking motion and heard a deafening pop. The car's speed decreased dramatically and the mother just managed to drive onto the side of the road before the momentum of the vehicle ran out. She reached into the glove compartment to grab a flashlight and stepped outside in the downpour to inspect the tires. All four tires had dozens of small, iron nails lodged into the rubber and the air had completely left the tubes, lowering the body of the car only mere inches from the ground.

The mother swore, "Some lunatic must have had a box of nails fly out of their car!" She swore again, "some people are just so inconsiderate!"

The eldest son remembered seeing a house a few minutes before and informed his mother. Even if they worked together, they would be unable to push the car loaded down with the heavy luggage they packed inside down a dark highway in the middle of the night, and she felt uneasy leaving her two sons alone in a parked car in the darkness on the side of the road. No one was very keen of hiking in the rain but the mother made the executive decision to take her sons and make the trek to the house the son saw before.

After locking the car, the exhausted mother and sons began their long hike along the dark road. The battery-deficient flashlight barely lit the path in front of them and they were constantly tripping over small rocks, ridges, and pot-holes in the pavement. They kept their coat hoods up to keep the rain from getting their heads wet, but the deluge was too relentless and the water soaked through to their clothes. It took what felt like hours to fatigued family to reach the house the son had seen, a very normal-looking, two-story house that had a well-kept yard, a clean pick-up truck in the driveway, and a lit porch light. They approached the front door, stood on the cement porch with a clean-woven welcome mat, and rang the brass doorbell on the frame of the door. Within a few moments, a young man opened the door. The man was very tall and well-built, muscular, with a clean haircut and shave, clothes in good repair, and a very friendly, welcoming face.

"Sorry to disturb you," said the mother, "but we were driving down the highway when our tires popped. Do you think you could give us a lift to a service station?"

"No need to go to a service station, ma'am, I've got a whole stash of tires out back." The man smiled. He took a quick look at the family, soaked to the bone with rainwater, and the dark and wet scenery behind them. "But a beautiful young woman like yourself and two charming young boys shouldn't be out on the road alone this late at night. Why don't you stay here for the night? I have a few extra rooms here."

"Thank you so much, but we'll be alright."

"No please, I insist. The three of you seem exhausted. Why not stay here for one night and I'll fix up your car in the morning. To tell you the truth, I'm uneasy myself going out on the road at this time of night. There are some scary characters around these parts."

After much insisting, the mother gave in to the man's kindness and the family came inside.

"Please allow me to show you to the guest rooms." The man said, ushering everyone up the steps. The first guest room at the top of the stairs was wonderfully well-kept, with crisply made beds, one against the wall with a window, and the other against a wall without one. Naturally, being boys, the two began to fight over the bed with the window. The mother tried to stop their ridiculous bickering; telling them not to leave such an impression on their host, but the man simply chuckled. "What appealing young men you have. Now let me show you to your room."

She followed the man into a second guest bedroom where there as an equally well-made queen bed.

"Do you really live in this big house all alone?" the mother asked,

"I used to live here with my brother and parents. My father and brother went camping in the woods behind our house and they were mauled and eaten by some wild animal. After their death, my mother went crazy out of her depression and I had to spend her to a better place."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you for your sympathy. Now, how about I fix us something to eat? I can imagine you all being very hungry after walking for so long in the rain."

The mother smiled and followed him down the stairs to his kitchen. The man pulled out a can of soup and the can opener from his pantry then tried to open it. While he turned the crank of the opener, the mother noticed a strange blotch on the man's right hand.

"What an interesting marking." She exclaimed, "A birthmark?"

"Yes," the man answered, "It seems it's hereditary. My brother also had the same exact mark in the same place."

He turned back the lid of the soup can and pulled out a pot, pouring the soup into the pot and leaving it on the lit stove.

"If only we had some meat instead of just soup." The man mumbled to himself, "That would be so much better." He turned to the mother and smiled, "The three of you look as if you could use some meat on your bones."

After a few moments of stirring the pot, he turned to the mother and asked, "If you wouldn't mind, could you continue to stir the pot for a few moments? I'm going to go and find some dry clothes and some towels to let you all get dry."

The mother nodded and the man ran up the steps leaving her alone in the kitchen. A strange feeling came over her, an uneasy sensation. "_I must be thirsty._" The thought. She scoured the man's cupboards for a glass and filled it with water from the sink. The lukewarm water was by no means very satisfying and she wondered if the man had any ice cubes. She went to the freezer, opened the door and dropped the glass in her hands.

She stood frozen, unable to move. An overwhelming feeling of disgust and nausea welled up in her stomach and a lump formed in her throat that she was not able to swallow. Not a single word escaped her lips, even when her mouth was ajar in dismay. The freezer was completely empty except for a single, small plate and a fork wrapped in transparent plastic wrap. On that plate was a half-eaten right hand with the same mark on it as the man had.

"Are you alright?!" the man called down as he ran down the steps, towels in hand.

"Ye-ye-yes." She stuttered, still unable to easily form words, "m-my hand just s-slipped."

She raised her hand and shut the door to the freezer just before the man turned into the kitchen.

"How about you lie down in your room for a bit? You must have caught a cold from walking so long in the rain."

Unable to think, she agreed and slowly retreated to the guest room.

Her mind soon connected the pieces in its reeling frenzy. The strange way his father and brother died, how his mother went insane, the hand and fork in his freezer, his behavior and words; it all added up now in her mind. She resolved to not startle her sons and avoid possibly alerting the man that she was onto his secret. She went to the room where her sons were and opened the door.

"Boys, can you do me a favor and go to the car to get our bags?"

"In the rain?!" The boys complained,

"Yes. Do it now." The mother demanded. The younger boy hesitantly stood up and walked out the door but the oldest son still refused.

"Can you go and help out your brother?" She asked him.

"He can do it himself." The son said, "Besides, I'm not going out in that rain."

"He doesn't need to go in this weather."

The man's voice behind her scared the mother and she spun around to see him standing in the doorway.

"I'll go and help." He offered,

"No!" she exclaimed, "I-I mean- you've done so much already. You don't need to do that. I'll go."

The mother left the room and went down the stairs. Upstairs, the door closed and the oldest boy let out a deafening scream. Then silence.

Terrified, the mother ran from the house, neglecting to close the door behind her. She took off running towards the car, pressured on by the sound of the front door closing and footsteps running behind her. She caught up to her youngest son. "Run. Run!" she said, "Keep running. Don't stop until you find some help. And whatever you do, don't come back."

The boy was very confused but the fear and concern in his mother's eyes mixed with the falling tears told him to comply. The two of them, mother and son kept running down the road with the man in pursuit. Suddenly the mother tripped and fell to the ground. The boy turned to help his mother but she refused his help, ushering him on. "NO! Don't! Keep running!" Hesitant, the boy turned and kept running.

Let it be known that there is a moral to this story. The eldest son refused to do as his mother told him, whereas the youngest son didn't. Should you not wish to become a cannibal's dinner in place of his soup, listen to your parents. The youngest son did as his mother told him and ran, listening to her screams as the man consumed her flesh. He found a police officer a few miles away who took him to his father's house. The police officer found the car and the house as well as the bodies of the mother and eldest son, mauled and half-consumed, but the man was never found.

-The End-


	5. The Tree Limb

**The Tree Limb**

* * *

Dear Mr. Jenson,

I have lived on 84th Avenue for the last 30 years, and one of the things that I appreciate about this neighborhood is the degree of care my good neighbors put into their property's appearance. When the family who lived in your house before you, the Wellingtons, moved out, I was rather saddened to see them go. Mr. Wellington has always kept his yard in stunning condition and it was very pleasant to go for afternoon walks with my dog, Edward, and pass by his house. It was the highlight of my day to see Mr. Wellington's beautiful yard. It has now been a year since you have moved in, but I noticed that you haven't been keeping up the yard. I could understand if you were very busy moving in and getting situated and you simply haven't gotten around to it, but it has been a year since it has been cared for and it is becoming an issue for the other neighbors. The bushes, trees, and grass are very overgrown and I suggest that you cut them back immediately to avoid further disturbing our kind neighbors.

Thank You,

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

* * *

Mr. Jenson,

YOU INCOMPITENT, REDNECK BAFFOON! When I advised you to cut back your yard, I expected you to try and accomplish this task WITHOUT DROPPING 2-TON TREE LIMBS ON MY PROPERTY! Not only did you not take care in cutting your trees, but you also LEFT THEM ON THE TOP OF MY HOUSE! Your actions were very inconsiderate, unacceptable, and utterly unintelligent, AND I DEMAND COMPENSATION FOR DAMAGE CAUSED BY YOUR IDIOCY AND INCOMPITANCE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. Should I not receive some form of payment in either money or labor to make right the actions you have taken against me, I shall not hesitate to involve law enforcement in our situation.

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

* * *

Mr. Jenson,

I do appreciate your swift action in trying to repair the damage done to my home, but I would appreciate it much more IF YOU DIDN'T SEND YOUR 12-YEAR-OLD SON TO DO THE WORK FOR YOU! The boy had no respect for authority or his elders, had lacking to nonexistent manners, and was incapable of keeping his insulting and inappropriate thoughts TO HIMSELF! I could go on for hours on how ill-mannered your son was, but I do not feel the need to waste so much ink which I have purchased with my own valuable and hard-earned money TO ELABORATE ON HOW IRETRIBUTIBLY UNINTELLIGENT YOUR TRASH HEAP OF A CHILD IS! Not only was the boy unpleasant, but he was also incapable of even lifting the tree limbs you have dropped on my house. Therefore, I demand that you YOURSELF come to my house and remove the tree limbs from my roof BEFORE I REMOVE YOUR EYEBALLS FROM THEIR SOCKETS!

Signed,

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

* * *

Mr. Jenson,

Ordinarily, I am a very patient man, but my patience with your stupidity has run thin. Upon returning home from a long day of work, I discovered my beloved dog, Edward, collapsed on the floor and coughing up blood. Overcome with distress, I ran to my home phone and called the vet, only to find that my phone would not work. I drove to every veterinary practice in town and not a single one was open. I returned home and tried to repair my phone line, hoping to call the 24-hour emergency vet hotline, only to find that the telephone wire was cut clean through. Edward passed away last night, BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO MUCH OF AN IMBICILE TO REMOVE TREE BRANCHES FROM MY ROOF WITHOUT CUTTING THE GOD FORSAKEN PHONE LINE! WERE YOU DROPPED ON YOUR HEAD AS A CHILD OR ARE YOU MENTALLY DISABLED BY CHOICE?! My beloved dog is DEAD because of the sins you have committed against me. EDWARD WINCHESTER HOLLOWAY THE THIRD IS DEAD BECAUSE A PERSON AS OBTUSE AS YOURSELF BREATHES ON THIS DAMNED EARTH! Now, as a Christian man, I would ordinarily follow the good lord's word and learn to love my neighbor, but I DO NOT MAKE A HABIT OF SHOWING AFFECTION FOR PEOPLE THAT RESEMBLE THE BACKSIDE OF A HIPPOPOTOMUS WITH THE INTELLIGENCE OF A SEA CUCUMBER! Ever since I've politely asked you to take better care of your property for the sake of the neighborhood, I have been experiencing a constant, agonizing headache. And when I take a pain pill YOU'RE STILL HERE! If you are incompetent, unintelligent, and an utter waste of the oxygen we have on this planet I DEMAND THAT YOU LEAVE THIS NEIGHBORHOOD IMMEDIATELY OR I WILL BE FORCED TO CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT, AND HAVE YOU EVICTED AND PLACED IN THE MENTAL ASSYLUM WHERE YOU BELONG!

Signed,

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

* * *

Mr. Jenson,

Please disregard my last letter as for I have made a mistake. I find that I am unable to call law enforcement because A DIM-WITTED ASSHOLE, WHO IS NOT WORTH THE DIRT THAT IT TAKES TO DIG HIS GRAVE, SEVERED MY PHONE LINE UPON COMPLETING THE SIMPLE TASK OF REMOVING TREE LIMBS! So I will not be _calling_ local law enforcement and will instead be writing them a strongly-worded letter elaborating on the unintelligent things you have done. Good day to you, sir.

Sincerely,

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

* * *

Dear Lt. Joseph Hoskins,

Chief of Police

Joseph, it has been many years since high school hasn't it. Boy, where did the years go. I would love to get together with you and catch up sometime soon. Say, how about this Saturday at 3pm in front of 6200 84th Ave NE? And if you could come as an on-duty police officer that would be great! I want to erm...see you as a cop... Since that's always what you talked about becoming when we were in high school. Sounds good!

See you there,

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

(P.S. My phone line is out so don't try calling my home phone.)

* * *

Dear Mr. Jenson,

I would like to apologize for the way I have chosen to communicate with you over the last few weeks. I am now writing this letter from prison, seeing as I was so irate because of your actions that I was unable to control my anger with the police and unintentionally assaulted them. This altercation occurred in front of your residence, but seeing as you were not home at the time, you may not have known about it. I have been consulted by the in-house psychiatrist to write to you and say how sorry I am for how I chose to handle the situation between us, but of course, I did not mean to write my apologies in the first place. I really wanted to tell you that when I am released from custody, **I WILL FIND YOU, AND WHEN I DO I WILL GOUGE OUT YOUR EYEBALLS AND EAT YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD! YES, I INTEND TO CONSUME THAT DISRESPECTFUL, UNGRATEFUL, IMBACILLIC, AND DEMONIC LITTLE ASS-HOLE YOU CALL A "SON" AND USE HIS THIGH BONES TO RIP OUT YOUR EYES! DO YOU HEAR ME, HILLBILLY!? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME NOW?! I WILL FIND YOU AND RUIN YOUR LIFE! AND WHEN YOU DIE, ENJOY YOUR YEARS IN HELL BECAUSE WHEN I DIE, I'M GONNA JOIN YOU AND MAKE PRISON SEEM LIKE DISNEYLAND!** Oh, and if you could pass on the message to Mrs. Henderson across the way that I won't be able to make it to brunch next Sunday that would be great.

Sincerely,

Dr. Thomas L. Holloway

(Inmate 1457)

* * *

-The End-


End file.
